Stopping by Black on a Snowy Evening
by Leisure
Summary: A travelweary Mr. Black recalls the last Christmas before Voldemort took over. And he throws in some Robert Frost.


A/N: I actually wrote this about five Christmases ago, but now I think it is time it was read.

The last time we were all together. Let me think...Yes, I'm sure it was that long ago Christmas, the one thought about so many times that bits of it have worn thin. It was to be my last December before this nation began to fall apart at the edges. I was little more than a skinny, innocent, wild-hearted boy of twenty-two, old enough to be out on my own, yet young enough not to have experienced the truths of loss and pain. I did not have a single worry within my whole existence. This Christmas Eve would be just as carefree as I was. As we all were.

The location had been in dispute for some time, but we finally decided on my apartment, the reasons being as follows: Lily was still moving in to James's place, Remus's apartment was a mess of paint and wallpaper, and Peter, as far as we knew, was still squashed down in a corner of his mother's attic. So it had to be my little flat in the center of London.

Icy patterns feathered out on the bay window overlooking the street. I pressed my palms against the glass, slick with condensation, and looked down into the miniature water-globe world below. The snow fell soft and thick and deep, the sky blanketed in gray. Cars inched foreword in single file, at the mercy of the red and green and yellow lights. It depressed me to think of all the people in those cars, frustrated and tired and trying to get home to their families. It took them so long...I turned away and studied the Christmas tree.

The delicate white fir, just barely taller than I, was lovely, although its beauty was nothing when compared to the girl decorating it. I belonged to that girl. In those days, Ophelia (that is her name) was radiant. She is still radiant, although her face is lined now, like my own, more by sadness than by years. But back then, all that time ago, she looked like the archangel of a complete and wonderful Heaven. Her eyes glittered in the light of the tree, and her short, chestnut hair shone around her like a halo. I cannot begin to say how much I admired my girl at that moment. Perhaps it was the halo. Or her smile. Or both.

The tree was purely a work of art. I have no idea where Ophelia managed to scrape together the money for the pearl balls, or the vanilla candles, or the tiny doves nestled in the branches. White fairies darted around the candles, foolishly burning themselves when they drew too near to the flames. A star, painstakingly created from silver wire, hung suspended over the tip of the tree, hovering there like a humming bird.

The whiteness of the Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner of my living room, reflecting off the mirror and the picture frames and my hair, which was glossy, straight, and short back then. My girl suddenly stepped back from the tree, and spun around. She saw me standing there, the light flickering off my black hair and my black silk shirt and my black jeans.

As if she were weightless, as if she were nothing at all, Ophelia drifted across the peach colored carpet and we kissed a perfect strawberry-chocolate Christmas kiss. It was strawberry-chocolate flavored due to the over-application of lip-gloss on Ophelia's part.

Footsteps echoing down the hall. Tap, tap, tap. Click. Clack. I leaned against the wall and counted the sounds while hurriedly rubbing Ophelia's lip-gloss off my face. A knock at the door. It quivered, and then opened noiselessly. On the threshold stood my best friends.

First came Lily, tall and beautiful with ringlets of curly red hair. James clung to her hand, his bright blue eyes glowing. Trailing behind him were his cohorts. I saw right away that Remus had retained his rumpled yet elegant style; his creased white shirt and tousled hair were not so much an act of carelessness as they were a statement. Peter was the last to enter the room. Actually, Peter never entered a room; he slunk into it. That boyish, mousy look still hung about his face. He never lost it, as it was a part of him.

We talked long into the night, our voices mingling with the din of the fire in the hearth that crackled and snapped itself down to embers. I cannot recall most of what we spoke of, as we sat around the coffee table, nor do I care. I do, however, remember the sixteen games of exploding snap that ended in burn marks on the carpet.

While the old radio played tired Christmas songs, the candles in the tree burnt low, sending the obscure scent of vanilla wafting around the room like a ghost.

I can clearly remember Lily and James huddled up on the couch. The last of the firelight fell on their faces, finding all the features and throwing their eyes into sharper contrast. It made me happy to see them this way, after what they'd been through. Remus's eyes were alive with sparks like a grind of metal against metal as we recalled all the crazy things we'd done as children. Peter was busy eating all the food I possessed within my apartment, but I didn't mind. Not really anyway.

My girl was sunk deep into my arms like a concrete figure, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. She was wearing that little cherry-red jumper, the one with a zipper up the front. It was smoother than velvet, softer than a new kitten. I loved that jumper. I loved Ophelia. So much. Nothing could touch us that night.

The clouds had broken apart like shattered glass and the stars were winking in the sky when at long last, the low buzz of chatter died and my best friends left. As Ophelia closed the door, as the footsteps clattered faintly down the hall, I felt very much alone. Ophelia kissed me another Christmas kiss, just a little one.

"I love you," she whispered in my ear, and then she crept away into our bedroom, to sleep and wake again on Christmas Day. _I love you. _ That singsong murmur of her voice chilled me through and through; it always would, for the rest of our days together. I reclined on the window seat and recalled that poem by Robert Frost, the one about stopping by the woods on a snowy evening. I wondered if Robert Frost felt like I did when he wrote that poem; cold and tired and mystified by the snow. I watched the cars drive on below, with so many miles to go before they slept. That Christmas night will remain locked forever in the deep corners of my mind.

I saw my friends many times in the future, but that Christmas Eve was the last time that we were together without some dark shadow hanging over us all. Lily and James are now regarded as old friends long gone. Remus and I rarely see each other. I look worse than death, but I don't feel it. Remus feels it. I've only seen Peter once since Lily and James died, thank God. I'll kill him next time, very, very slowly. I'll make sure his screams are loud enough.

I'll slash his wrists, cut open his chest, run a knife over his throat and plunge a jagged piece of glass deep into his throat and his own heartbeat will drive the blood from his body. I'll break his neck first. Slowly, and calmly, so that I can hear every crack of each vertebra as the blood seeps between it. By means of heaven or hell, I will avenge Lilly and James. I lift one hand and imagine the blood snaking around my fingers and dripping down my wrist. Ophelia would be ashamed if she knew I felt like this.

Ophelia no longer cares for me as she once did, if she cares for me at all. She knows I am not guilty, indeed, she knows everything. But what does it matter? I am starting to believe that she was nothing more than a memory, a mid-winter's dream. Now I am truly alone, with only the dust and the sun and my winter star to guide my path.

Tonight, the snow falls thick around me, chills me as my girl's voice once did. The road is wide and endless, a great winding snake unfolding tirelessly before me, laughing at me. Frost clings to my face and my every breath freezes in the air. My boots sink into the snow with a steady crunch, crunch, crunch as I leave my own footprints in the millions of snowflakes.

I have seen a man die for a stranger. I have seen a rich man beg, I've seen a good man sin, I've seen a tough man cry. I've seen a loser win and a sad man grin, and I heard an honest man lie. I've seen the good side of bad and the downside of up and everything between. I licked the silver spoon, drank from the golden cup and smoked the finest green. I have lived too much. I have seen too much death and too many tears, more than any one man should see in his lifetime.

A few tears freeze halfway down my cheeks. I wonder if I'm really sad or if I've just kept my eyes open for too long.

No matter where I go, I will always, always remember that winter's night, for it is the fire that burns within me. It keeps me going. And now it must keep me going, for I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep. I am, after all, a godfather. And I thought I saw him, that skinny, innocent, wild-hearted boy, on the crest of the snow bank, slipping into the trees to be gone forever. And he lived happily never after.

A/N: So there it is. Kudos to Everlast for the inspiration. Robert Frost kicks an immeasurable amount of ass.


End file.
